


Love Conquers All

by LadyWynne



Series: Absence Makes the Heart Grow Fonder [3]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Explicit Language, Extreme AU, F/M, Gregor is his own warning, Non-Consensual Touching, Violence against women
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-13
Updated: 2018-02-27
Packaged: 2019-03-18 00:05:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13670118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyWynne/pseuds/LadyWynne
Summary: Sansa and Sandor have been friends since childhood, but their friendship has slowly grown into more.  Ned holds a tournament to honor Sansa's coming-of-age and Sandor hopes to prove himself worthy.





	1. Possibility

**Author's Note:**

> So, in my mind, Sandor is 19 now and Sansa is 16.

**_We are only human, and the gods have fashioned us for love._ **

**_~Maester Aemon_ **

Sansa clutches the scroll and hurries to her room.  When she arrives she quickly shuts and bolts the door before going to the window.  She unrolls the scroll.  As her eyes skim the parchment she smiles.  Sandor will be there!  He is coming to the tournament in honor of her nameday!  She gives a little of hop of excitement at the prospect of seeing him again after so long, then carefully stashes the scroll in her jewelry box with the others.

Although Sandor has not visited Winterfell since the events of the harvest feast several years ago, he and Sansa seemed to have created a bond that night in the godswood.  They write letters every few moons.  At first, hers are filled with idle chatter about her lessons or the exploits of her siblings, and Sandor writes short notes asking after her or mentioning his continuing training.  Over time their friendship grows and Sansa shares her dreams for her future.  Sandor begins to let his bitterness for his family come through.  Finally, there is an unmistakable tenderness between them, dotted with affection and longing.  Sandor even calls her “little bird” like the last time they spoke.  The young couple never overstep propriety, Sansa is too much of a lady and Sandor is too loyal to her father, but the feelings between them are plain.  Receiving a scroll from Sandor is the highlight of Sansa’s days. 

The scroll prior to this one contained significant news.  Sandor’s father was killed while hunting, and his brother was on his way back to claim the Keep.  Sansa can read Sandor’s pain behind his words and she aches for him.  He is truly alone now, having lost his mother and sister years ago.  Sandor cannot abide his brother, and for good reason. He will have to find somewhere else to be, and soon. 

After taking a moment longer to bask in the thought of Sandor’s upcoming visit, Sansa makes her way down to break her fast with her family in their private dining room.  She is the last to arrive. She can’t keep the smile off her face as she takes delicate bites of egg and toast with jam.  Her parents exchange a look, and finally Lady Catelyn speaks.

“I hear you received a raven this morning, Sansa.”

Sansa freezes.  She knows her parents are aware of the exchange.  Maester Luwin would surely have told them, but they never speak of it.  “Yes, mother.  It was from Sandor Clegane.  He will be taking part in the tourney for my nameday.”  She smiles softly again, blushes, and looks down at her plate.

Lord Eddard looks at his wife again and then at Sansa. “As a matter of fact, I received a raven from Clegane Keep this morning as well.”

“You did?” Sansa asks, surprised.

“Yes. Now that his brother has inherited Sandor has asked for a place in my service.  By all accounts the boy is talented with a sword.  We could make good use of him here, but I do have reservations.”

Her father stops and takes a deep breath, glancing around the table at his family. They are actively listening to the exchange. “The rest of you are excused.  See to your duties.”

The other Stark children leave immediately, casting peeks at Sansa as they go. When the door closes Catelyn leans forward. “Sansa, I know you and Sandor are friends.  Tell us, is there anything more between you?”

Sansa looks down at her folded hands. “I think there might be,” she says shyly, “but we haven’t said anything improper!” she quickly adds.

“We didn’t think you had.” Catelyn says. “It’s just that it is time to make a match for you.  I know you know that.  You are almost of age. And Sandor Clegane, unfortunately, is not as well-born as we would like.  Also,” she hesitates a moment, “the poor boy’s face…and well, Sansa, you are so very lovely.”

“That doesn’t matter to me.” Sansa starts, but her father interrupts.

“We know, sweet girl, but it’s my duty to make you the best match I can. Frankly, Sansa, I cannot offer the boy a place at Winterfell if he is a threat to your future.  It wouldn’t be fair to either of you to put you in that position.”

“Oh, but please, father, he cannot stay at Clegane Keep!  His brother is a brute.” The true cause of Sandor’s burns isn’t known to anyone but her, and she doesn’t want to betray his confidence.

Ned sighs, “I’ve heard rumors from the south about him.  I hope they are just that.” He looks out the window for a moment, thinking. “Sandor can attend the tournament.  A good display will guarantee him a place in almost any house in the North.  I will speak on his behalf to the lords.  We will find him a good appointment Sansa, but it cannot be at Winterfell.”

Sansa looks down, trying to hide her disappointment.

Her mother speaks again. “And while he is here you will observe all propriety. You will be courteous, but no more.  You cannot give him reason to hope for what will never be Sansa.”

“Yes, mother.” She answers dutifully, all the while dreading the thought of hurting him.

With that they all rise to begin their day.

\--- 

Soon Sansa’s nameday arrives.  A handmaid finishes braiding her hair and Sansa eyes herself in the glass. She had been especially careful in dressing this morning, donning a new day dress in a pale blue, a hue which brings out her eyes and complexion.  The dress hugs her curves and dips a little lower than she usually wears during the day, but it is important to dress as a woman grown.  It is her sixteenth nameday, and from now on she is no longer a child.  Sansa wonders what Sandor will think of the gown, then pushes the thought away with a frown. 

The tourney her lord father has organized is only partly because he knows how much Sansa will enjoy it.  The other motive is marriage.  Her brother Robb is already betrothed to a girl from the Westerlands, and Ned Stark has been quietly putting off offers for her hand for years.  He insisted she be of age, and more than that, that Sansa at least meet her intended and be able to voice any serious objections to the match.  Sansa is grateful to her father.  Not many girls are given the same courtesy, yet the only person she can imagine giving a favour to, much less her hand, is Sandor Clegane. Moments later as Sansa steps into the chill morning air she is reminded that there is even more reason for her parents’ haste.  The autumn has lasted for many years, but winter is clearly approaching now.  Her father must needs see her safely ensconced in her new home before winter truly sets in.  She knows he hopes she will catch the eye of a promising young man at the tourney.  The prize may be 10,000 gold dragons, but the real treasure at stake is Sansa’s hand.

This morning is the archery competition and tonight will be her nameday feast. Sansa makes her way with the rest of her family to the tourney grounds set up between Winterfell and the wolfswood.  As she mounts the dais Sansa feels all eyes on her.  She moves as gracefully as possible to sit to the left of her father with Arya beside her, Bran and Rickon sit to the right after their mother.  Robb, Theon, and Jon will be competing so they are elsewhere getting ready.

It is a grand day for it.  The sun is uncharacteristically shining, and even though the real pageantry won’t come into play until tomorrow, the Stark banners lining the field look fine snapping in the light breeze.  Sansa watches for Sandor but doesn’t see him. The archery turns out to be good competition.  Many have entered, including talented smallfolk.  In the end Robb, Jon, and Theon all acquit themselves well.  They make it to the final round along with a handful of others.  In the end though, Theon takes the top prize.  Sansa is happy for him and cheers as he comes before the dais. He seems to bask in the applause and rises from his bow with a flourish and a grin.

The afternoon is spent catching up with girlfriends she rarely sees.  They gossip and sew in a special pavilion that has been set up for them near the small sept.  From their vantage point the young women can observe as lords and ladies enter the great hall.  Numerous people are only now reaching Winterfell, just in time for her nameday feast.

As Sansa puts the finishing touches on what she had hoped would be her favour, her eye is drawn to a familiar yellow and black sigil.  She looks up with a smile to see a lone knight crossing to the great hall.  He is massive and Sansa notices people hurrying to move out of his path.  The smile dies on her face. _Gregor_.  Her mouth presses into a thin line.  She knows the capacity for cruelty he possesses and wants no part of him.  _He must have returned from the south._ Thankfully the older Clegane spares the highborn maidens not a glance and moves quickly past.  With that Sansa decides to take her leave and change for the feast.  She wonders what has kept Sandor.

\--- 

The feast is truly more than Sansa could have expected.  She makes a note to thank her lady mother, for Catelyn has obviously put extra care into every detail for her daughter’s sixteenth nameday.  The great hall is alight with hundreds of candles and each large hearth is merrily crackling.  Besides the usual Stark banners, the walls are lined with Sansa’s favorite tapestries from throughout Winterfell, depicting knights and their ladies, gardens and forests and stars.  Every table is decorated with autumn wildflowers. Goldenrod, heather, beautyberry, chrysanthemum, and black-eyed susan even adorn the iron candelabras overhead.  The feast itself is outstanding.  There is pumpkin soup served inside the little orange shells, roasted brussel sprouts with mushrooms, potatoes with butter, duck and venison turned over a spit, warm bread, and more besides.  Sansa doesn’t think she can eat another bite until the sweets are served.  Her eyes grow wide as she takes in simply heaps of lemon cakes, wine-poached pears, and apple raisin pudding. Sansa doubts even her wedding feast will be this grand.  She takes a second to sweep her eyes across the hall, reveling in her moment, when her blue eyes, as if drawn by a magnetic pull, meet grey ones at the end of one of the long tables.  _Sandor! Finally._ Sansa’s heart leaps and she smiles as he raises his goblet to her in salute.

 After dessert and before dancing Sansa is presented with nameday gifts.  Her father gives her a beautifully illustrated book of stories and songs.  Her mother an extravagantly embroidered cloak which Sansa suspects is intended to be her maiden’s cloak.  Arya surprises her with a hawk.  It touches Sansa greatly because it hints at Arya’s desire to spend more time with her. Her brothers have come together to give her a lovely gilded mirror, brush, and comb.  Jon Snow stands to present this with Robb, Bran, and Rickon, although he has been sitting with Theon below the high table. Theon has had soft fur-lined gloves made for her. The lords and their families then step forward bringing bolts of silk and Myrish lace, ribbon, linen, glass buttons and more.  Sansa is overwhelmed, and it truly goes on much too long. 

Just as she thinks the gift portion is over one more figure makes his way to the front of the hall.  Sandor comes forward alone and presents a rare white fox pelt.  “Lady Sansa.” He nods and meets her eyes as he lays his gift with the others.  Sansa can see from her seat that it is soft and flawless, and she is touched that he took the time to personally obtain something beautiful for her.  “Thank you, my lord,” she politely replies, but blushes and gives him a smile. As Sandor moves to the side again, and servants begin moving the tables back for dancing, Sansa notices Gregor watching his brother from beside a roaring hearth.  The hateful smirk he wears is disconcerting; but when Gregor catches Sandor’s eye, then looks pointedly at her and lewdly licks his lips, it truly makes her skin crawl. 

Sansa is quickly distracted by Robb asking her to dance.  She spends the evening in the arms of one partner after the next.  She senses Sandor watching from his place at the back of the hall, an area that keeps both her and his brother in sight.  Only toward the end of the evening, as people are starting to filter out, does Sandor step forward and ask for a dance.  Sansa curtsies and smiles up at him.  She is so glad to finally be close to him.  He takes her waist confidently.  She notes he has grown into a true warrior since last they met.  She can feel his muscles under her hands, and the top of her head only reaches his chin.  His face is as badly scarred as ever, but it truly doesn’t bother her.  Sansa knows the person underneath. They begin to move to the music. Face-to-face with the person she has been writing to for so long, Sansa suddenly finds herself shy.  She tilts her head and looks down delicately as they dance.

“I am so glad to see you Sandor. I got your raven, but I worried when I didn’t see you this morning.”

“I had no interest in the archery, little bird, but I wouldn’t want to miss your nameday.” She looks up at him on hearing his name for her.  When she meets his eyes her pulse quickens, and every point their bodies are in contact seems to crackle with lightning.

Sandor grips her a bit tighter.  “I’d like to speak with you.  Tonight.”

She bites her lip but cannot refuse him, much as she knows she should. “It will be difficult. The sept? At the hour of the bat?”

He gives her a brief nod as the dance ends, then steps back with a slight bow and is gone.  The rest of the evening passes in a blur of expectation.

 ---

Later, when Sansa is sure Arya is asleep, she gently pushes back the furs and makes her way to the door.  Just as she is pulling the hood over her distinctive red hair a voice chimes out, “Where are you going?”

“Go back to sleep, Arya.” Sansa whispers harshly.

“I won’t.  Tell me where you are going.” Her little sister nothing if not stubborn.  Sansa sighs and turns around, not speaking. “You’re going to meet Sandor, aren’t you?”

Sansa is too surprised to deny it. “How did you know?”

Arya smirks.  “It’s not hard to figure out.  You’ve been writing for years, and then that strange conversation at breakfast when we were all asked to leave, not to mention how you were practically swooning as you danced with him.” Arya makes a face. “I don’t know what you see in him.  He was mean to Robb and Jon.  He won’t even talk to them.”

“He’s been through a lot, Arya.”  Sansa sits on the bed next to her sister. “Are you going to tell?”

Arya thinks a moment. “No.  He must really like you.  Getting caught would mean a beating for him at the least.” Sansa hadn’t thought of that.  Even if her father was lenient her brothers would feel it their duty to defend her honor. 

“Also,” Arya continued, oblivious to her thoughts, “it’s nice to see you doing something for yourself, not being the perfect lady. Just be careful.”

“I will. I am always safe in Winterfell.”

Sansa gets up to leave.  Just as she reaches the door Arya speaks up again. “You owe me one.”  Sansa smiles inside her hood and slips into the hall.

She reaches the yard with no problems.  Once outside she waits a moment in the shadow of the great keep, taking note of the movement of guards on the walls.  She is in no danger, but she wouldn’t want to be questioned.  When the half-moon disappears behind the clouds for a moment, she quickly crosses to the sept and enters.

Once inside Sansa lets her eyes adjust. The only illumination is moonlight streaming through the windows.

“Sandor?” she tentatively calls.

“I’m here.” The rasping voice comes from close to her right.  She spies him in the dark corner and joins him without needing to cross in front of the windows. They grasp hands. She is somewhat surprised to find he wore his sword.

“I’m so happy to get to speak to you at last! I’ve treasured every letter.”

“Me as well, little bird.” Sandor leans over and gently touches her lips with his own.  Sansa is a bit surprised, and feels her heart flutter. 

She looks up at him, pleased, but her face falls when she remembers what she has to say.  “Sandor, father says I must make another match.  I know you wrote to him.  He will not have you at Winterfell.  He says he will find you a good place but...”

Sansa is cut off by another kiss, one with more intensity.  They pull apart, hands still gripping each other as if they never want to let go. 

“Sansa, do you want me?” He asks bluntly.  He is staring at her intently, but she sees a hint of vulnerability deep in his eyes.

“Yes.” She assures him instantly.

“Then we will find a way. I promise.  I had to be sure of what you wanted, but don’t worry now. I’ll show Lord Eddard my worth when I win the tourney.  No one could keep you safer than me.”

Sansa smiles and reaches into her cloak. “Then take this.” She presses her favour into his hand. Sandor unfolds it gently.  It is a long linen strip she has elegantly embroidered.  The edging is a pattern of vines in yellow thread.  In the center are four yellow circles, each enclosing an image.  The first holds a daisy crown, the second three black dogs, the third a weirwood, and the last a direwolf.  Sandor looks at it long, rubbing it gently with his thumb, before folding it and tucking it away.

“Thank you, little bird.” He cups her face in his warm rough hands, and she thinks she may drown in his grey eyes before he leans down for a gentle lingering kiss.

After some moments, she murmurs, “Sandor, I must go.”

He nods and steps back, “You’re right, but listen first.” He grows solemn. “You saw my brother tonight?”

“Yes” Sansa frowns.

“He noticed you mean something to me.”

Sansa knows Gregor is awful, but she doesn’t understand. “Surely he doesn’t truly care who you fancy.”

Sandor shakes his head. “Sansa, it’s not about that.  Gregor is a monster.  He hates anything pure or beautiful.  He’ll not want me to have you.”

Sansa is still unsure what he is trying to say. “He can’t stop you once we convince father.”

Sandor loses patience and grips her shoulders hard. “He doesn’t care about your father Sansa! He doesn’t care about your brothers or your guards.  If he wants to hurt you he will. He will harm you for sport, or because you smiled at me, or just to destroy something good.” He leans down until his face is directly in front of her. “You’re not safe while Gregor is in Winterfell. Do you understand? Go nowhere alone.”

Sansa leans away.  He is frightening her, but he doesn’t relent. “Say it Sansa.  Say you will heed me.”

She nods. “I will Sandor.  Of course, I will.” He finally loosens his grip and lets his hands fall away. They stand there for an awkward moment.

“We should go.  I must ride well tomorrow.” Sandor sounds tired.

Sansa reaches for him and timidly intertwines her fingers with his. “I don’t want to leave yet.”

He smiles softly down at her then. “Nor do I.“

They exchange one more kiss.  This time Sansa wraps her arms around his neck and stands up on her toes to reach him better.  Her lips part and she feels Sandor’s tongue gently exploring her mouth. Sansa feels quite improper, but finds she doesn’t mind; not when the press of his arms around her is so warm and right.


	2. Courage, Dear Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The tournament day arrives. Sandor jousts to prove himself to the Starks but his brother is there as well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I know the North doesn't have many knights, but I use the word a lot because "competitor" is boring and long.
> 
> Warnings begin to apply later in this chapter.

The day of the jousting dawns bright and beautiful.  Sansa’s mood matches the weather as she dresses in an airy pink frock with gold trim and embroidery.  She knows the gold will gleam in the sunlight and her choice of attire was made as soon as she opened her eyes and saw the blue sky.  Sansa instructs her maid on how to do her hair, half-up with an intricate knot of braids in the back topped with a small golden hairnet.  It glistens almost as much as her fiery red tresses.

Sansa breaks her fast in the Great Hall with her family and the many guests.  The low hum of voices fills the air. Theon sits with them as he does at many less formal meals, and his presence is welcome as Robb and Jon are off preparing to joust.  Theon will not ride today.  He is from the Iron Islands, too rocky and rough for jousting. As a rule, the iron born aren’t known for their prowess on horseback. Theon is an exception to this, having been raised and trained alongside Lord Stark’s sons. Sansa privately believes he simply prefers to prolong his glory of the day before.  As she watches, Theon winks at two pretty girls seated below them.  The young ladies giggle at the attention.

Today the first rounds of jousting will be before the noon meal and the champion will be crowned in the late afternoon. There will be no melee.  Lord and Lady Stark felt that it would be out of place in a tourney honoring their gentle Lady Sansa. Sansa is grateful. She much prefers the gallantry of a joust to the violence of a melee. Sansa looks around the hall for Sandor but doesn’t see him.  She is not surprised.  He is likely preparing himself and his horse for the competition to come.  Sansa smiles as she remembers the night before. How wonderful it had been!  Sandor had held her in his arms and kissed her.  He had walked with her to the door of the sept and run his fingers through her hair before pulling up her hood. “Good night, little bird,” he rasped softly, tracing her cheek with his thumb.

“Good night,” she whispered back. He had given her a gentle push out the door. Sansa had felt his eyes follow her until she slipped quietly back into the Great Keep.

“What are you thinking of Sansa?” a voice disrupts her reverie. “A smile like that makes a man wonder. Dreaming of your perfect knight?” Theon eyes her curiously, a teasing smirk playing on his face. 

Sansa smiles politely back at him. “I was thinking of my nameday.  Did you fancy anyone at the feast Theon?”

Theon swallows his last bite and grins. “Mayhaps more than one.” Sansa blushes. “You did too.  Anyone with eyes saw the way you danced with Clegane. Just the match your lord father hoped for. Honestly, Sansa, did you have to pick the ugliest man in the North?”

Sansa doesn’t know how to reply and looks down with a frown.  Theon’s smile fades at her unhappy expression.  “Pay me no mind Sansa.  It’s your tourney. Dance with who you please. It was quite entertaining watching one partner after the other leave disappointed!”

Theon rises, extending his hand.  “No more sad faces. It’s time for the jousts. Let’s go watch those arrogant arses knock each other into the dirt.”

Sansa can’t help but giggle, and suddenly she misses Sandor terribly. _I know he will win.  He’ll win and father and mother will love him._ Taking Theon’s hand, Sansa stands. Anticipation courses through her as she walks arm-in-arm with Theon to the tourney grounds, talking and laughing all the way.

Once there Sansa takes a moment to appreciate the spectacle.  The tiltway is bordered with banners from all over the North and even beyond the Neck.  The entire course is lined with smallfolk waving flags to show their support for a favorite champion.  The dais itself boasts chairs with plush fur-lined cushions, Stark banners, and yards of bunting.  Sansa sits, flanked by Lady Catelyn and Bran, and the tournament procession begins.  The competitors, dressed in all their finery, make their way down the tiltway.  They ride to the cheering of the crowds, and as each reaches the dais, the herald announces him.  The knights bow their heads to Lord and Lady Stark and then to her.  Each knight carries his standard and even the horses are garbed beautifully. Sansa knows every House and sigil.  Heraldry has always been one of her strengths, so she doesn’t need her mother’s commentary on the families of the men who pass before her. Sansa listens patiently, smiling and nodding.  She humors her mother in good cheer, all the while watching for the only contestant to truly hold any interest for her.

Finally, Sandor appears.  He makes an impressive sight on his huge black destrier, Stranger.  The man clearly takes good care of his horse, it’s black coat glistens and it’s hooves shine. The spirited animal prances as it moves along the procession, but Sandor has it well under control.  Sandor himself looks even larger than usual in full plate armor.  His dark grey suit is well-maintained and polished.  It is of good quality, but plain.  Sandor also wears a yellow surcoat with his sigil, and the three black dogs of House Clegane lope proudly along on his banner.  Altogether, Sansa thinks he looks very fine, a true warrior even among this company. Unfortunately, the moniker Theon bestowed on him years before stuck.  Whispers of “The Hound!” can be heard. As Sandor approaches the dais and removes his helm Sansa hears gasps, but the scars don’t seem so gruesome to her here. In fact, they lend him a ferocity appropriate to the occasion.  Sandor bows his head to her father and mother, who accept the gesture nobly. Sandor’s grey eyes meet her blue ones as he bows to her in turn.  It is then that she notices her favour. It is wound about the hilt of his longsword, the ends fluttering in the breeze.  Sansa glances at it and gives him a pleased smile before he moves on. 

The knights continue their procession and soon the elder Clegane rides by.  Ser Gregor, aptly dubbed the Mountain that Rides, dwarfs his chestnut stallion.  His armor is solid and well-made in shining silver and his horse is draped in yellow and black.  Gregor carries the same banner Sandor displayed but he wears no surcoat.  At the dais Gregor merely lifts his visor and gives a small nod to Lord Stark, completely ignoring everyone else.

The morning jousts are exciting.  The knight who is unhorsed is defeated, or on the third round the one who breaks his lance is the winner. The bouts move quickly, with the knights promptly showing their skill and experience, or lack thereof. Robb advances, much to Lady Catelyn’s delight.  Jon is bested by Ser Jaremy Mallister.  Jon is an excellent horseman, but he rarely practices with the quintain and is seriously considering taking the black.  What good is a lance at the Wall? His real talent is swordplay. Sansa isn’t particularly close with Jon. She is hardly ever around him without her mother present, and Lady Catelyn dislikes her husband’s bastard son. Sansa knows she should do better by him and resolves to try.

Sansa’s thoughts of Jon are chased away as Sandor takes the field.  She holds her breath as he charges, Stranger’s hooves beating the ground like drums.  Sansa barely has time to be nervous before Sandor has his opponent, a new-made knight in a checkered green and white surcoat, flying off his horse. She claps enthusiastically for his win.

Next on the field is Gregor.  The Mountain has results similar to his brother, unfortunately unhorsing a close friend to the Starks, Lord Umber’s grandson.

After several more jousts a halt is called for the midday meal. Rather than return to the castle Sansa decides to explore the festival grounds around the tiltway.  Arya, Bran, and Rickon accompany her and Sansa is enthralled by the sights and sounds and smells. There are acrobats and jugglers and poets and musicians.  There are tents for craftsmen selling everything imaginable.  The knights’ colorful pavilions have pinions snapping in the wind, and the shield of each competitor is in front of their tent announcing the occupant. Sansa didn’t know so many colors existed in the world. Hunter green and emerald green and cyan, sky blue and powder blue and navy, purples and yellows and pinks and white, each vying to outdo the next. 

Everyone is in great spirits.  As they walk the Starks hear laughter and applause from all sides.  Sansa greets those they pass, ever the lady.  She is happy to see the smallfolk of Winterfell enjoying such a rare occasion.  She also stops to chat with many highborn ladies, much to Arya’s annoyance.  However, Arya’s impatience turns to amusement when several young men stop Sansa, seeking to gain her admiration. Arya snickers when one optimistic suitor compliments Sansa’s beauty and offers her a handcrafted paper rose from one of the stalls.  Sansa accepts it with grace, but turns down the young man’s offer to lunch with him.  Not long after it is Sansa’s turn to giggle when a rather chubby boy of perhaps eleven approaches Arya. She can’t help but laugh as Arya wipes his sloppy kiss off her hand with her skirts.

Soon the smells from the food vendors become irresistible and they make their over to choose something to eat. They each get a hand pie filled with chicken bacon and onion, as well as warm buns filled with cheese, and a basket of fruits to share.  Bran, Rickon, and Arya choose ale to wash it down with.  Rickon obviously feeling very proud of the fact. Sansa chooses lemonade flavored with lavender. Then they all make their way to the shade of an open-sided pavilion for their picnic. They have a wonderful time discussing the performance of various knights in the mornings’ jousts.  Bran and Rickon hash out the finer points of technique, Arya laughs about the look on the faces of the men as they fall, and Sansa tells what she knows about each man’s prior victories.

If it weren’t such a special day Sansa would have been sleepy after her meal, but she doesn’t want to waste a minute so she continues exploring with her siblings when everyone is done.  Soon their attention is caught by a performance of small fluffy dogs, who jump through hoops and onto their master’s shoulders.  As they watch Sansa leans down to Arya’s ear. “I’ll be back in a while.  Keep the boys entertained?” Arya gives her a knowing look and nods. Sansa is gone.  She feels bad for leaving unannounced.  She knows her parents consider Bran, who is 12, and Rickon, 8, as much her escorts as she is theirs. Yet Sansa wants to see Sandor, so she takes the opportunity.  Sansa had noted a small tent with the Clegane sigil set a bit away from the larger pavilions.  She thinks it is likely Sandor’s and heads in that direction.  Taking no chances, Sansa stops a small boy as she nears the place.

“Excuse me,” she asks, pointing. “Whose tent is that one?”

The boy looks over and back to her. “Why, that’s the Hound’s m’lady.  Saw him go in after his joust myself.”

Sansa thanks the lad and gives him a small bunch of grapes left from lunch.  He grins and hurries on.

Satisfied that the tent belongs to her Clegane, Sansa approaches the open flap and stops. “Sandor?” She peeks inside and sees Sandor turn at the sound of his name. He is out of his armor and dressed in a light tunic, dark breeches with tall boots, and an olive cloak.  He is wearing his sword with her favour and looks as if he were just ready to leave the tent. At seeing her he walks over and takes her hand, drawing her inside.

“Little bird. You look beautiful.” She can tell he is pleased to see her, and before she can thank him he leans over to kiss her softly on the lips. “But you shouldn’t have come alone.”

Sansa shakes her head and smiles at him. “I’m perfectly safe in the crowds. You rode so well this morning.”

Sandor shrugs. “Didn’t take much against that gnat. The boy should have stuck with a quintain.”

“Still,” Sansa insisted, “you won.”

“Not yet. The real contest is this afternoon.” Sandor looks at her a moment. “Would you like to walk with me? I’ve already eaten and I have some time.”

“Of course!” Sansa says happily, taking his arm. Her parents are in the castle, and she doesn’t really care anyway.  After the tournament Sansa is sure they will accept Sandor as she does.

They stroll the grounds, enjoying the festivities together.  No one approaches Sansa on Sandor’s arm, and she delights in the feel of him next to her.  Sansa sees a few raised eyebrows as they move through the crowd, but she ignores them. Sansa keeps up a constant string of chatter, pointing out baubles that catch her eye.  He listens and grunts, seemingly happy to just be with her. After a while Sansa notices some small lingonberry tarts, topped with a dollop of sweet whipped cream and lemon zest.  Sandor buys them each one, and they pause to watch a juggler as they eat.  However, the moment is spoiled when the man in motley sets fire to his batons.  Sansa feels Sandor stiffen as the flames twirl ever faster, so she tugs his arm and they continue. Eventually Sansa spots her little band of siblings in the distance and Sandor halts them in the shade of a small tree.

“This is where I leave you.  I must go back and don my armor.”

“I understand. Thank you for the tart, and for walking with me.”

“Of course, little bird.”

“Ride well and be safe.” Sandor looks as if he might kiss her then, but instead he gives her hand a squeeze and releases her.

“Off with you, now. I will see you soon.” Sansa moves to join her siblings, and when she looks back, he is gone.

Soon, the crowds reform at the tiltway and the finals begin.  The matches have been drawn. The first round is Sandor Clegane facing Jory Cassel, then Robb Stark is matched against Ser Gerold Dayne.  Sansa sees her father shake his head at that one.  Ser Gerold is a harsh man who travelled far to participate. Finally, Gregor Clegane is to ride against Ser Jaremy Mallister.  Sansa knows that after Robb her mother favors Ser Jaremy, as he hails from the riverlands like Lady Catelyn herself.

When Sandor takes the field Sansa is on the edge of her seat.  She longs for Sandor’s victory but she fears for either man to be hurt.  Jory is the son of her father’s master-at-arms, Ser Rodrik Cassel.  Sansa knows him well.  She need not have worried.  Neither man falls in the first tilt, but Sandor breaks his lance.  On the second pass Sandor waits until the last moment to shift.  He strikes Jory on the breastplate rather than the shield and the man crashes to the ground.  The crowd cheers, though not overly enthusiastically, as Jory is a Winterfell man. He rises unhurt and the tournament moves on.

Robb is next and Sansa thinks her brother looks every bit the Stark heir as he enters the field.  He is on a grey horse with a short caparison of white with a direwolf sewn over the beast’s flank. Robb’s armor is light grey and his shield shows the Stark sigil. Robb has represented the Starks well in the tournament and elsewhere and she knows father must be proud. He has always been more stern with Robb than the other children.  It is Robb’s fate to rule the North and he must needs be up to the task.  Robb, for his part, takes his responsibilities seriously.

Robb’s opponent, Ser Gerold, is in extremely ornate black armor with dark purple enameling on a black mount.  The suit bristles with wicked spikes from helm, paldrace, and coulter, giving him a menacing air. Ser Gerold’s shield shows the star of his house.  As he enters the field the whole air of the event seems to darken, and indeed Sansa notices that the sky has clouded over ominously.  Robb has barely grasped his lance when Ser Gerold charges.  Robb spurs his mount to meet him but he looks unstable in the saddle.  Sure enough Ser Gerold’s lance slides past Robb’s shield and connects with his upper arm.  Sansa doesn’t know how Robb keeps his seat and as he wheels she sees a bright red bloom of blood between the plates of his armored arm.  Robb lets his shield fall from the injured arm and signals that he will continue.  This pass is more evenly matched despite Robb’s wound.  When they charge Robb catches his opponent squarely under his shield and the man falls.  He does not quickly rise.  The crowd is silent as they wait.  Robb dismounts and goes over to Ser Gerold.  As Robb helps the other man stand the knight spits up blood.  The joust has left him with injuries on the inside and he is helped to a maester.

The third tilt is between Ser Gregor and Ser Jaremy. Ser Jaremy is well experienced but quite old to be riding in a tournament.  Nevertheless, he is strong and fit and grasps his blue lance confidently.  Ser Gregor looms across the field, his presence is a black blight on the whole day. Sansa sincerely hopes he is defeated soundly and quickly. It is not to be.  Gregor is so huge that he is almost impossible to unhorse so Ser Jaremy wisely focuses on defense for the first run.  Gregor’s lance slides off Ser Jaremy’s shield. Neither lance is broken and each man wheels his horse about. This time Gregor unchivalrously aims his lance at Ser Jaremy’s neck.  The experienced knight swings right in the saddle and Gregor’s lance misses entirely, Ser Jaremy’s own lance veering wide at the movement.  Finally, in the third run, the two men race toward each other, both intent and at full gallop.  This time Gregor swings his lance completely across Ser Jaremy’s body. Mallister is swept off his mount by the barricade, hits the ground hard, and rolls over backward once before coming to a stop.  The crowd is silent, waiting, as Ser Jaremy’s squire runs out to him.  Ser Gregor doesn’t even look back, but dismounts and immediately stalks toward his pavilion.  After only a moment Ser Jaremy rises, and removing his helm, directs a bow toward Lord Stark before waving that he is well to the crowd.  A cheer goes up and Sansa lets out a breath in relief.

After a short consultation it is decided that Robb must withdraw.  Although his display earlier was admirable, his arm was pierced with wood from the lance and the bone is broken.  Looking a bit pale, and bandaged by Maester Luwin, Robb joins them on the dais to watch the final joust. 

It is unprecedented to have two warriors from the same house compete to be the champion, much less two brothers. As the Hound and the Mountain line up across the field silence falls. Tension radiates from them in waves, even the smallfolk can feel it.  As they take up their lances Sansa thinks her body may break from the strain.  She clutches Robb’s good arm tightly and he looks down at her in concern, but all her focus is on the joust.  _Please let him win. Let Sandor win.  Don’t let Gregor be the champion. Keep Sandor safe. Show father that he is a good man and a strong warrior._ Sansa prays to the old and the new gods as she watches. The horses seem to leap forward at the same moment, a blur of yellow and black.  Again, Gregor aims high, and even though Sandor tries to dodge the lance glances off his helmet.  He does not fall, but his helm is ruined, dented so badly that it no longer offers a clear view.  Once Stranger comes to a stop Sandor removes the useless piece.  As it drops to the ground Sansa gasps.  Blood runs down the grooves of Sandor’s scars and drips from his chin. At the sight Gregor’s laugh booms out.  He laughs long and hard.  Everyone is stunned by the disturbing display, and Sandor’s grey eyes gleam with hatred. Sansa knows Sandor will continue, although it is unwise to ride without a helmet.  She is right. Sandor takes up his shield and lance again and charges, not waiting a moment longer than necessary. Gregor quiets instantly and within seconds is rushing to meet his brother again. They crash in an explosion of wood, both lances breaking in a shower of splinters. Neither man falls.

This time the Cleganes wheel about in a more measured way.  They are both panting in their armor and their horses are lathered with sweat. As they race toward each other once more Sansa feels time has slowed to a crawl.  She clearly sees Sandor feint right and the way Gregor brings his shield up in response.  Then she sees Sandor’s lance quickly dart left again, bypassing Gregor’s shield, knocking Gregor’s lance up, and striking the huge man at the very bottom of his plackart.  Sandor’s lance breaks as he drives forward.  The power of the blow knocks Gregor backwards until he is lying flat over the rump of his horse, his legs still tangled in the stirrups, his arms hanging loose down either side with his shield still attached.  It is a ridiculous position.  Upon seeing Ser Gregor bouncing down the tiltway, struggling to rise with the horse at a trot, the crowd bursts into laughter.  The assembly rings with mirth.  Sansa covers her mouth with her hand as she giggles. Gregor finally rights himself at the other end of the tiltway and looks around glaring. He dismounts with a roar of indignation, calling for his sword.  His fury is in vain as there is no one for him to battle. Sandor is all the way across the field, and Lord Stark’s many guards have all drawn steel in response to his own.  Bellowing in frustration Gregor swings his sword, burying it in a post. He then stalks away with the weapon still swaying in the wood, shoving people aside as he goes.

The crowd now cheers as they turn their attention back to the younger Clegane.  Sandor is the champion! They cheer and whoop as he approaches the dais.  “The North!” “The Hound!” There is even some good-natured and probably drunken barking. Sansa stands and applauds madly. As Sandor guides Stranger forward his eyes find Sansa’s. She sees triumph on his filthy face, and pride. Ned rises and holds up his hand for silence. Sandor turns to him. “I, Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell, Warden of the North, declare Sandor Clegane of House Clegane to be the champion.” Another cheer goes up. Ned then reaches over and picks up a crown of flowers, goldenrod twisted with the last of the season’s daisies, and passes it to Sandor. Sandor holds the delicate blooms carefully in one gauntleted hand as he controls the reins with the other. “As champion it is for you to choose a Queen of Love and Beauty.”

Sandor doesn’t hesitate.  He moves Stranger a mere few steps down the dais and stops before Sansa.  Sansa clasps her hands before her in excitement.  He beckons her to lean down and carefully places the crown on her head. “I choose Lady Sansa of House Stark, for no one is more fair of face or kind of heart.” Sansa rises, blushing joyfully, and curtsies to him. “Thank you, my lord.” The crowd shouts their approval one more time, and Sansa beams as he rides away.  It has been her dream to be Queen for so long, and Sandor made it a reality for her. 

Sansa leads a procession of young women as she heads back to the castle, giggling and gossiping all the way. She enjoys every minute of it, and she can’t wait to see Sandor at the feast tonight. At the Great Keep she breaks away and heads up to her room. She is exhausted but giddy with happiness.  She carefully removes her crown and lays it on her dressing table, taking down her hair as well.  Then Sansa falls onto her bed with a smile. _He won! Sandor did it!_ Surely, they could be together now.  No one else had caught her eye, and truthfully their affection was so obvious that few had even tried. Sansa drifts off into a restful sleep, content.  

She is woken by a knock at her door.  A quick glance at the overcast dripping sky out the window shows the light has dimmed considerably.  It must be near dusk.

“Sansa, may we come in?” Her mother’s voice.

Sansa stands and smooths her dress and hair. “Come in.”

Sansa’s father and mother enter her room.  Sansa smiles and greets them with a hug.  Then she moves over to a small table where they all sit.

“Did you enjoy your tournament?” her father asks.

“Oh yes! It was wonderful, everything I could dream of. Thank you, father, and you mother.”

“Good. I am glad.” Ned nods and sits back.

Catelyn speaks. “Sansa, we’ve come to discuss your betrothal.  Now is the perfect time.  Everyone has been so impressed by your grace and loveliness.” 

“You do us proud Sansa,” Ned adds.

“Thank you.” Sansa says again, although a strange knot begins to coil in the pit of her stomach.

Catelyn continues.  “We have received several offers, admittedly not as many as we expected, but all good men.”

Sansa frowns and Catelyn continues hurriedly, before Sansa can speak. “We know of your affection for Clegane, Sansa, but we discussed this.  He is not suitable.”

“But he is the champion!” Sansa says more forcefully than she intended. She sounds like a child and continues more calmly. “Who could be a better husband? And Clegane Keep is so close to Winterfell.”

“Clegane Keep belongs to Gregor.” Her father says. “You said yourself that Sandor won’t stay there.  In fact, where does the boy have to go?”

“We could stay here.” Sansa pleads.

“Would you really be happy here as wife to a mere man-at-arms?” Catelyn asks. “Sansa, be reasonable.”

Sansa feels her spine straighten and her chin lift. She sees her father appraise her. “I will marry Sandor.”

Ned opens his mouth to speak.

Worried, Sansa blurts out. “I love him father!”

Her mother’s face darkens with a frown. “Sansa, you don’t know what love is. I am appalled by your behavior.  I was not going to mention it, but people saw you enter his tent unchaperoned.  You barely acknowledged the young men who sought your attention.  In fact, it was quite rude!”

Sansa begins a response but Catelyn cut her off with a sharp wave of her hand. “You will marry the man your father chooses and we will hear no more of it!”

Sansa’s heart breaks.  Her parents have spoken and she has lost. She no longer cares if she looks like a child. She rises with a sob and goes quickly to the door, ignoring their protests. Why can’t they understand? She and Sandor love each other.  He hasn’t spoken the words, but she knows. She blindly hastens down corridors and out into the yard.  It is raining heavily now and everyone has taken shelter inside. Raindrops mix with Sansa’s tears and her slippers squelch through mud.  She is barely aware of where she is going, except maybe to find Sandor and weep into his arms, but she doesn’t know where he is. 

Suddenly, Sansa’s flight is stopped short by a rough tug on her arm.  She is wrenched around so fiercely that she crashes hard into a stone wall, hitting her head. Before she knows what is happening a meaty hand clamps over her mouth, and she is pressed forcefully against the wall by someone so huge the only part of him she can see is his studded jerkin.  “Make a sound and I’ll rip out your throat.” The voice is deep and mean.  _Gregor!_ It can only be him. Sansa struggles, but he slams her head against the wall again.  She stills, dazed, and feels blood dripping down.  Gregor takes advantage and spins her around, pressing her cheek against the stone.  He leans over and growls low in her ear, one hand gripping her hair while the other grabs her arse, fingers digging painfully.  “Laugh at me, will you? You are my bitch now.  My little brother wouldn’t know what to do with you anyway.  If he comes looking, I’ll end him, but he probably won’t.  He knows better than to take what is mine.” Sansa smells wine on his breath and swats at him ineffectually in her stunned state. In seconds she is gagged and trussed.  As she is thrown over Gregor’s shoulder Sansa cries silently.  _Sandor_!

Sandor

Sandor moves across the yard toward the Great Hall.  He is glad the rain held off long enough to finish the tournament.  It’s time for the feast and he looks forward to sitting next to his little bird, with the crown on her head and her favour at his hip.  He had dressed carefully, knowing it is important to continue to impress her parents, but he won the tourney. He is the champion and he crowned Sansa the Queen of Love and Beauty.  Her parents had to see that no one would take better care of her than him. No one. Sandor is growing impatient with courting.  In his mind, Sansa is already his as he is hers.

Sandor’s thoughts are interrupted by a commotion near the stables.  There is shouting and men-at-arms can be seen running purposefully in all directions.  He frowns and hurries toward hall to check on Sansa, unconsciously fingering the hilt of his sword and her favour. Sandor is almost to the great oaken doors when Robb, Jon, and Theon step out of thin air right in front of him.

“Where is she Clegane?” Robb demands and Jon lays his sword at Sandor’s throat.

“Sansa?” Sandor notes Robb’s blue eyes are uncharacteristically hard. “How in seven hells should I know? The last I saw her was when I crowned her!”

“You’re lying!” Theon spouts.

Robb and Jon exchange a look, and Robb holds out a small object with his unbroken arm.

“There has been no sign of her since she left her room an hour ago, and blood was found on a wall near the stables. This was there as well.” The article is a pink slipper edged in gold and caked in mud.  It is the perfect match to Sansa’s dress.

Sandor’s stomach drops and suddenly he knows. _Gregor has her._ Rage such as he has never felt boils through his blood, and underneath it, fear too. He knows what his evil brother will do to his delicate little bird. He should have guarded her more carefully, especially after his brother’s disgrace today. It takes everything he has to control his voice enough to speak. “Gregor has her.”

Theon looks confused “Your brother?”

Something in Sandor’s eyes must convince Jon because he lowers his sword. Sandor instantly brushes past them and sprints for the stables.  The others rush after him.

“Where will he take her Clegane?”

“Hold up, we’re coming with you.”

“The Keep. You can come if you don’t fall behind.” He growls out as he saddles his huge black horse.

Jon and Theon are on their own mounts in moments. “Robb, you should tell father what we know and bring the men. We are going after her now.”

Robb looks up them and nods. “Go get her. We’ll be right behind you.”

Sandor says nothing more, just spurs Stranger out the open gate, Jon and Theon galloping at his heels.  They race south, Sandor making good use of the open ground. Raindrops sting his good cheek as he rides, and in the distance is the rumble of thunder.


	3. Brave and Gentle and Strong

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandor, Jon, and Theon race to save Sansa from Gregor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here we go! I went a little crazy with the POVs. Please forgive me if its muddy.

Gregor

His head is pounding.  Gregor rode until his mount could go no further.  The horse is exhausted and it only just stopped raining.  _Bugger this._ Gregor curses himself.  It was stupid to take the girl.  If he hadn’t been so drunk and humiliated he would never have done it.  After all Ned Stark is his liege lord, no matter if he hasn’t seen the man in five years. _And I am Sandor’s lord now. The little shit._ This is all his brother’s fault. He still can’t believe Sandor won the tournament.  When he left the boy had been weak. Nothing but a dog to kick as he went by, and now he thought he could stand up to him? Gregor would show him.  He saw how his brother looked at the Stark bitch.  _He’ll learn. He can have nothing I don’t allow him to have._

He looks down at Sansa draped across the saddle in front of him and pinches her hard in frustration.  She yelps through her gag and he grins. Oh well.  He’ll have his fun, get rid of her, and deny everything.  There will be no proof, and Ned Stark is nothing if not honorable.  In fact, why wait?  He is tired of riding with her in his way and if she is not seen at Clegane Keep more’s the better. Sufficiently cheered up by his plan Gregor pats Sansa’s bottom just to see her squirm. Then he moves his horse off the path and into the forest.  He rides slowly until he finds a small clearing.  Satisfied, he dismounts and pulls Sansa down from the saddle, but when he lets go her numb legs cannot hold her and she slumps to the ground.

“What’s the matter bitch, so eager to get on your back for me?”  Gregor can’t resist giving her a vicious kick with his boot and is pleased when she cries out.  He reaches down and grabs her arm, pulling her roughly up and dragging her over to a nearby tree.  He presses her to the trunk, exulting in the girl’s trembling fear of him.  She is a pretty thing, small and weak, like the kittens he used to drown. Gregor pulls her gag down and then leans toward her.  He licks her slowly from her chin to her forehead.  The girl scrunches her lips and eyes tightly together as he moves wetly over them. When he stops he shifts to her ear, “You’ll scream for me, pretty thing. Just wait right here. I won’t be long.” She doesn’t open her eyes to look at him and he laughs, placing a large hand on her shoulder and pushing her slowly down next to the tree. Gregor doesn’t bother tying her there.  Her wrists are still bound behind her and she could never escape him in this remote forest. As he moves to secure the horse the girl curls around herself on the ground.

Sansa

She hurts so bad.  Sansa is lying on the damp forest floor, wearing her soaked-through pink day dress. She rode for hours with the front of the saddle digging into her stomach. There will be huge bruises there. She lost consciousness multiple times with her head hanging down.  Her arms and legs are completely numb, and then there is the pain from Gregor’s boot. _Will I die here?_ She wonders. _No. Be strong_. _Sandor will come for you._ Sansa repeats the words to herself over and over again. In truth she is utterly terrified.  Sansa has never been anything but cherished and the new emotion has her frozen, unable to move or speak. 

When Gregor is done with the horse he turns to look at her.  There is a cruel gleam in his eyes. He stalks toward her and Sansa tenses even more. As he advances Gregor unbuckles his sword belt and tosses it down beside her. Her thoughts are reduced to simply  _Sandor Sandor Sandor_. When he starts on his breeches Sansa breaks. She screams without restraint, her fear taking over her mind and dominating the part of her that knows there is no one to hear.

Sandor

Sandor reigns Stranger in. “Fuck!” He scans the ground as they move out of the thick forest and into the moonlight.  Jon and Theon stop their lathered horses close by.

“What is it?” the ironborn asks.

“The tracks are gone.  They must have turned off the path.”

“I thought they were heading for Clegane Keep,” Jon says.

“Aye, me too. Gregor must have stopped in the forest.” Suddenly he realizes what this means. Gregor wouldn’t stop for anything as he made for Clegane Keep, unless he decided not to take Sansa there. Go ahead and get rid of her in the woods after… _Little bird_. Sandor wheels Stranger roughly about, heading back the way they came. Despite his thudding heart he takes his time, trying to distinguish hoofprints leaving the trail through the wet underbrush.  _Seven hells. They have to be close._ The three men keep scanning the ground under the dark overhang of branches, concentrating, not wanting to miss a thing.

They are at it only a few minutes when a gut-wrenching scream rends the air. _Sansa!_ Sandor has never heard anything so chilling. He is motionless for a heartbeat; and then he draws his sword, still adorned with Sansa’s favour, urging Stranger toward the terrible sound.  He dismounts when he must leave the path, cursing his lack of armor.  He can distinguish sobbing and pleading through the trees ahead. He motions for Jon and Theon to circle around behind Gregor’s location.  Sandor tries to make as little sound as possible on the damp ground, but when he breaks through the tree line his brother grabs his sword and rises to face him from where he was kneeling.  Gregor’s lacings are loose, but his breeches are still completely on. Behind Gregor, tiny in comparison as she shrinks against a tree, is Sansa. Sandor’s heart breaks at the sight of her, his kind little bird is dirty and crying, hands bound cruelly behind her back. When she sees him, Sansa gives a little gasping sob. “Sandor,” she all but whispers, her blue eyes pleading with him to save her.

“Saandoor,” Gregor mocks, reaching down to grasp her red hair, pulling her head back. “You’re so weak, little brother. One look from a girl and you go around grinning like a lovesick puppy. I tried to burn it out of you when I caught you with that sodding daisy.” Sansa’s eyes meet his own in surprise, sadness and love writ there.

Sandor edges closer as Gregor continues to taunt him. “Oh, she is comely enough, but only a cunt just the same. If you want her you should just take her. Look what aiming above your station gets you. Remember your place, dog, and mayhaps I’ll give you a taste of my leftovers tonight.” With that Gregor grins and twists Sansa’s hair before releasing her.

Sandor is enraged, but his fury has turned to deadly menace, cold as steel. “You will never touch her again,” he growls out each syllable, body tense and ready. As he circles he tries to reach Sansa. He sees Gregor’s intention at the last moment and flings himself forward, barely stopping Gregor’s blade from piercing Sansa’s throat. Sansa shrieks and Sandor throws Gregor back, lunging quickly with all his strength, but Gregor is fast for a man his size and blocks him, then turns sharply, leaving Sandor unbalanced. Sandor recovers and squares up to face his brother again.

Sansa

Sansa watches the fight anxiously.  When a hand unexpectedly rests on her shoulder she flinches away in fright.

“Shhh, Sansa. It’s Jon. Don’t be afraid.”

 _Jon!_ Her brave goodhearted brother is here.  “Oh Jon,” Sansa cries as he cuts her wrists free.  As soon as she is able Sansa turns into his arms and clutches his tunic. Jon holds her tightly for a moment.

“Are you hurt?” he asks.

“No.”

“Stay here. I must help Clegane.” Jon pulls away hurriedly but stops when he takes her in fully. His face darkens as it travels from her disheveled hair to her raw wrists.

“I’ll kill him Sansa.” He says lowly.  “If Clegane hasn’t managed it I’ll kill him myself.” Jon tries to rise beside her.  She doesn’t really mean to, but she grasps onto his arm.  Jon gently but firmly pries himself loose and turns to enter the fray.

Sandor

The Hound grins viciously, his rage fully unleashed now that Sansa is safe out of the way. The brothers battle with skill and ferocity. Gregor’s swings would cut him in half if they connected.  Sandor pants with the effort of avoiding his blows, ducking and parrying, his own thrusts only barely turned aside. He notices with satisfaction that Gregor is beginning to struggle, sweat running down his face.  One of Gregor’s swings goes wide, but he uses the momentum of the downward stroke to give force to his left fist as it slams into Sandor’s scarred face.  Sandor stumbles back, nearly falling and Gregor raises his sword again for a swing that would take off Sandor’s head, except it doesn’t land.  Instead Gregor roars and looks down at the dagger buried to its black hilt in his armpit.  Then Sandor sees Theon, dancing back after his stab. As Gregor attempts to remove the dagger Sandor ends it, his sword driving its way through Gregor’s throat.  His beast of a brother falls to his knees, blood bubbling from his lips.  Sandor wrenches his sword free and the blood gushes down Gregor’s front as he falls forward, still.

Sandor looks down at the Mountain for a moment, chest heaving from the struggle, but only for a moment.  In seconds he drops his bloody sword and rushes over to Sansa, hitting his knees and enveloping her in his embrace. Sansa folds into him, weeping.  He strokes her hair and kisses the crown of her head. “It’s alright, little bird.  I’m here. It’s over now.” 

Sansa is crying into his tunic but when she looks up at him she smiles through her tears and kisses him.  Once she does he kisses her back fervently, a claim and a promise and an assurance to himself that she is whole and real. Eventually Sansa loosens her grip and looks up at him again. “Thank you, Sandor.” She finds Jon and Theon with her eyes. “Thank you all.”

Sandor helps Sansa to stand on unsteady legs.  He looks at her with concern, suddenly aware of her many injuries.  Firstly, Sansa is soaked, cold and shaking with only one slipper on her feet.  Judging by her breathing she likely has a broken rib and her wrists are raw, and that’s just what he can see.  Sandor immediately scoops her up into his arms and heads for the horses.  He leaves his brother where he lays, and leaves Jon and Theon to deal with Gregor’s horse. As he walks he struggles to put away his anger, gently cradling his little bird in his arms. Sansa lays her head against his shoulder, still shivering lightly.  Eventually she speaks softly, “You came for me. You killed your brother.”

He kisses the top of her head. “Aye. I will always come for you Sansa. I’m sorry this happened. I should have protected you.”

“You did protect me. I should have been more careful.” With that thought she remembers why she had been rushing into the yard and her eyes fill with tears once again. “Oh Sandor, father and mother refused our betrothal.” Her chin trembles. “That’s why I was running and didn’t see him.  Sandor, I can’t bear to be apart from you, not now!” He feels her weeping, clutching at his tunic.  Sandor understands then how deep her feelings are for him. It is not simply a girlish fancy, or an adolescent rebellion.  Her clinging to him is not born solely from pain, fear, or exhaustion. Her devotion is real. She is genuinely afraid of losing him.  His heart swells with love for her.

Reaching the horses, Sandor stops and sets her on her feet.  He quickly wraps her in the thick cloak he left there.  Then he pulls her close and tilts her chin up to look at him. “Hear me little bird. You are safe and you are with me. I promised we would be together and we will.” He rubs her wet cheeks with his rough thumbs. “No more tears now. Rest, and leave it to me.” Sansa stares up at him with wide eyes, unmoving, so he leans down and speaks softly but firmly in his deep gravelly voice. “I will never abandon you Sansa.” Finally, she seems to melt with relief at his words, leaning into him. He kisses her lips gently then.

Jon and Theon come up through the trees with Gregor’s horse, the body slung over it. There is no discussion of where Sansa will ride.  Sandor simply lifts her up onto Stranger and pulls himself up behind her. Sansa sits sidesaddle wrapped in his cloak and leans against him.  She needs a maester but the pace is necessarily slow.  Sansa flinches and shifts often.  Only after he tightens his arms about her does he feel her muscles loosen.  Soon she is dozing peacefully against him. 

They ride for no more than an hour or two before meeting Ned’s host.  Lord Stark has fifty mounted men at his back, including Robb.  On seeing them father and son ride over quickly.  Sandor is loath to wake Sansa, warm and sweet as she is in front of him, but at the sound of her father’s voice she stirs.

“Sansa, are you hurt?” Ned reaches over and takes her hand anxiously.  He doesn’t ask her to dismount, nor does he question her riding with Sandor.

“I am fine father, thanks to Sandor, Jon, and Theon.  They saved me before any real damage could be done.”

Sandor speaks up. “She needs a maester, my lord.”

Ned looks up from Sansa’s face. “Of course. Let us make haste. Sansa,” he asks tenderly, “would you like to ride with me?”

“No.” She looks startled and Sandor feels her grasp his forearm. “Please father, let me stay here.”

Ned nods. “As you say.  You shouldn’t be moved too much.”

The party reaches Winterfell without further incident and Sansa is settled in her room.  Even though dawn is breaking Ned calls them into his solar.

“Tell me everything,” he commands wearily, and Jon Snow recounts the tale.

Ned is quiet for a moment when he finishes.  Then he crosses over to them and clasps each man’s arm in turn. “I can never thank you enough for what you’ve done tonight. House Stark owes you a great debt.”

“It was nothing father. Sansa is my sister. I will defend her as I would any of my family,” Jon says.

“Don’t dismiss your deeds so quickly Jon.  I don’t intend to forget them.  You shall all be honored in the Great Hall, but now you have my ear.  Is there any way I can repay you?” Ned looks to each face.

Theon shifts his feet and stands tall before speaking. “I have grown up with Sansa, Lord Stark.  She is like a sister to me and of late we have grown to be friends as well.  I would defend her as Jon would, and I ask for no reward on that score, but there is something else I would ask.”

“Go on.”

Theon takes a deep breath and goes to one knee. “I ask leave to return home. I want to take my place on the iron islands, smell the salt sea again. You have been good to me here, but I have been a hostage nonetheless. Lord Stark, if you give me leave to depart, you, and your son after you, will have a true friend among the ironborn.” Theon stares up steadfastly, but remains on his knee, awaiting Ned’s answer.

Ned hesitates only a moment before replying, “You have my leave, Theon.  You are a man grown and I will hold you no longer.”

Theon rises and bows low from the waist. “Thank you, Lord Stark.” Then Theon turns to Jon with a grin and Jon slaps him on the back, smiling too.  Even Sandor shakes his hand, knowing what this must mean for him.

Ned turns to Jon. “There must be something you would ask.”

Jon shakes his head. “What I would ask is the same as Theon.  I want to take the Black. I need to find my place, father, away from Winterfell. I think I could do well at the Wall, and Uncle Benjen is there.  I can serve the North with honor.”

“I knew this day must come, Jon. Of course you may go, and I know you will make us proud.” Ned steps forward and wraps Jon in a bearhug, a rare display of sentiment in front of the other two. “I am proud to have you in my family, Jon.”

Jon’s face twists with emotion, and it is a moment before Ned steps back. “You will not leave empty-handed.  You will greet your new brothers at Castle Black with a gift of supplies from our stores.”

“Thank you, father.” Jon says solemnly.  He and Ned then break into grins.  Lord Stark pats his shoulder and is still smiling as he turns to Sandor.

“And what of you Sandor? Is there something you would ask of me?”

“Aye, there is.” He speaks it plain. “I would ask for Sansa’s hand.  I know I am not worthy, too low born and ugly, but it is the only thing I would have of you.”

Ned nods slowly. Jon and Theon fall silent. “I see. I know Sansa cares for you.  She has told me so herself, and I know you are an able man.  You have proven it at the tourney and more so tonight. What I would know is this, will you care for her as she deserves? You seem a hard man Clegane, and Sansa is kind and gentle. Will you cherish her?”

Sandor pauses a moment before responding. It is hard for him to say what he needs to, but he looks Ned in the eye. “I will. We have known each other since we were children in the godswood, my lord, and I care for her deeply.”

“Then I can make no better match for Sansa.  If she is still agreeable you will wed when she is fully recovered from her ordeal.  Furthermore, you are hereby named Lord Clegane, protector of Clegane Keep and all its lands.”

Sandor bows. “Thank you, my lord.” As he straightens, Jon and Theon step forward to shake his hand.  Sandor realizes with some surprise that he is no longer wary of their friendship, and accepts the congratulations gladly.

Ned relaxes, leaning against his desk. “We will make everything official tomorrow. We should all get some rest now.  Sansa is in good hands, and it has been a long night.”

Recognizing the dismissal, they all bow their heads and take their leave.

“Good night, father.”

“Good night.”

In the hall Sandor realizes how exhausted he truly is.  He can barely stifle a yawn, but he stops in to check on Sansa before going to the guest quarters.  Lady Stark nods at him stiffly as he enters but does not protest his presence. He sees the little bird, his little bird, resting peacefully with her red hair spilling across the furs. Satisfied, he makes for his bed.

Sansa

When she opens her eyes they focus slowly on the form sitting next to her.  She recognizes his red hair and smiles at her dear brother.

“Good morning, sweet sister, or rather, good afternoon.”

Sansa tries to sit up but he stops her with a hand on her shoulder. She settles back, “Good afternoon.”

“How are you?” Robb’s asks, watching her carefully.

Sansa cautiously moves her limbs. Her chest is wrapped tightly in bandages. “I am well, only a little sore. How are you? Does your arm pain you?”

Robb smiles. “Only you would politely inquire about my arm after last night.  It’s fine.  It’s you I’m worried about.”

“All is well Robb. As long as Jon and Theon and Sandor weren’t hurt.”

“No, they are all right.” Robb’s face grows serious. “I’m sorry this happened to you Sansa.”

Sansa nods, “Thank you Robb, but I’d rather not think on it now.” Sansa sits up, ignoring Robb this time as he objects.

They chat for a while about nothing of real consequence.  She is glad he came to see her.  Robb has always been special to her and she believes he regrets not being able to save her himself.  Eventually there is a knock on the door and he moves to go.

“I’ll leave you now, Sansa. The maester and mother are here.  If you feel up to it father would like you in the Great Hall for dinner.  He intends to honor your rescuers.”

“Of course I will be there!” Robb leans down and kisses her cheek before leaving.

Sansa spends the rest of the day in female company. Her mother fusses over her and Arya tells funny stories about the goings-on in Winterfell.  When it is time to dress for dinner they depart and Sansa chooses a grey wool dress with white trim, modest in design.  She feels the need for warmth and familiarity.

As the time nears to go down there is another knock at the door. The maid opens it to admit Sandor. Sansa’s heart lifts at the sight of him and she rushes to meet him.

“Sandor, I’m so glad to see you! I hope you are well after last night.  Please come in.” She takes his hand and leads him to her small table, dismissing the maid. When the door closes Sansa surprises herself by sitting in Sandor’s lap instead of in the chair.  He smiles and pulls her toward him. The kiss they share is long and satisfying.  As she opens her lips for him her hands settle on his shoulder and against his chest, while his rest on her hips. Sansa revels in the soft pressure of his mouth and hands on her.

When they part his grey eyes are soft. “I have spoken to your father and there is something I must needs ask you.”

Sansa’s chest tightens with hope. “Yes, what is it?”

Sandor gently pushes her up and gets to one knee before her, looking very gallant in black breeches and black tunic with three dogs in yellow leather. He takes her small hands in his large ones. “Sansa, if you will have me, I would be your husband. No one will hurt you again, or I’d kill them. Will you be my wife little bird?”

Sansa is overwhelmed with gladness.  She can hardly believe it’s true. “Yes! Oh yes.” Sandor swiftly stands and takes her in his arms, kissing her with passion.  His warm hand moves beneath her hair and the other holds her waist. She wraps her arms around his neck in response, ignoring the stab in her side.  When he pulls away she is flushed and breathless.

Sandor chuckles at the sight of her.

She cannot contain herself. “So father consented? Wonderful!  We must be married at once.  Where will we live? Do you have a cloak for the ceremony?”

“Hush your chirping,” he says good-naturedly, “Your father has given me Clegane Keep.  We will live there, and the marriage will be whenever you wish it.” He takes her arm, smiling down at her. “There will be plenty of time to plan.  Now we must go down to dinner. They are expecting us.” Sandor and Sansa make their way slowly to the Great Hall. Sansa’s face is rosy with happiness.

After the meal, which consists of many of Jon and Theon’s favorite foods, Lord Stark stands at the front of the dais with Sansa. The hall quiets.

“Jon Snow, Theon Greyjoy, and Sandor Clegane.” They come before him. “The North and House Stark owe you a great debt. You saved my beloved Sansa from a terrible fate so that she stands here tonight. Know that what you have done will not be forgotten, and as you make your way in the world know that you will always have a welcome place at my hearth and a friend in Winterfell.” Ned motions and a small chest of gold is set before each man, with Sandor’s tourney winnings added next to his.  Ned addresses the room at large. “Each man will be gifted a new sword of the best quality, made to his specifications, and each has been granted a boon of their choosing. Theon Greyjoy departs soon for Pyke. He leaves with my blessing and my hope that one day the iron islands will be an ally to us. Jon Snow will join many others in the history of our family as a man of the Night’s Watch. The black brothers guard us all, and I know he will serve with honor.  Sandor Clegane is hereby named Lord of Clegane Keep and its lands. Step forward now, say your words before all, and claim your birthright.”

Sandor steps forward and lays his sword at Lord Stark’s feet as he kneels. “I swear fealty to House Stark, now and forever, by the old gods and the new. The swords of House Clegane are yours to command.”

“I accept your pledge. Winterfell will provide aid and justice as required. Rise Lord Clegane. There is more besides your title that I would offer you. Have you spoken to Lady Sansa?”

“Yes, my lord. She is agreeable.” He glances at her and almost smiles. Her heart flutters and she smiles shyly.

“Then I am pleased to announce the betrothal of Lady Sansa of House Stark to Lord Sandor Clegane. May the old gods bless your union.” At that Sansa skips down the stairs to stand happily at Sandor’s side, but before she reaches him she adds her own gratitude to that of her father. She comes to Jon first and looks him right in the eye as she says, “Thank you, brother. I will never forget that it was you who came to me first and you who cut my bonds.” She leans forward and kisses his cheek.

Jon’s face remains stoic but there is emotion in his voice. “Thank you, Sansa.”

Sansa smiles before Theon. “Thank you, Theon. I hope you find much happiness at Pyke.” He grins as she kisses his cheek.

“No doubt I will Sansa. May you find the same with your hound of a husband,” he teases with a wink.

When she reaches Sandor she says nothing at first, but stands on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek as well. “Thank you, dear Sandor.”

“You’re very welcome, my lady.” Sansa suddenly feels shy and blushes as she stands next to him and takes his arm.

With a final bow and a curtsy to her lord father from Sansa the official audience is over and the room turns to merriment.  Singers and musicians remain from the tourney and Ned orders wine and ale to flow for the duration of the evening.

Sansa is still too sore to dance so Sandor leads her back to her place on the dais, taking a seat beside her. They hold hands under the table and many come up to congratulate them on their betrothal. Arya, Bran, and Rickon sit and ask for details of Sandor’s fight with Gregor. Sansa is glad to see that they get on well. Later Jon, Theon, and Robb join them with tankards of ale. “Congratulations, goodbrother.” Robb claps Sandor on the back with a smile before sitting. Again, Sansa is pleased beyond measure to see Sandor with her family. She sits quietly, letting the men talk as it grows late. She is sleepy but doesn’t want to spoil the moment.  Eventually Sandor glances over to see her eyes drooping. “Time to retire Sansa. Up you get.” He stands and pulls her to her feet. “I’ll take you to your quarters, little bird.”

Sansa smiles at others before she goes. “Good night.”

A content and slightly slurred chorus of “Good night” sends her on her way.

Sandor

He spends the entire following day with Sansa, mostly in the godswood. Sansa is wrapped in a warm cloak against the autumn chill. They stroll through the morning, and put their feet in the hot pools, Sansa chatting merrily about every detail of their wedding and married lives. Sandor occasionally comments, but mostly just listens to her cheerfully go on.

He will depart the next day to prepare Clegane Keep. He doesn’t mention it to Sansa now, but Lord Stark is sending him with a contingent of men to clear his home of Gregor’s less savory southron companions.  After that he will be sure everything is prepared for his bride’s arrival. _His bride_. He can scarce believe it. He hardly dared to hope for so long.  The time after Gregor burned him had been torturous, and he had given up on any sort of happiness until he sat with Sansa in the godswood.  Her kindness and later her letters gave him courage in his misery. He will return in a moon’s turn for the wedding, at which time his new sword will be presented.  By then everything should be prepared for Jon and Theon’s departures as well. They will all leave the day after the ceremony.

For now, Sandor spreads his cloak on the ground and they picnic on a carpet of red leaves. They have never had the freedom to spend so much time together and he savors every moment. After eating they lay next to each other, staring up through the canopy. Sansa has quieted and he pulls her next to him, cradling her in the crook of his arm. He realizes uneasily that she is on his scarred side, but she doesn’t seem to mind.  She even turns toward him, laying her head on his chest. He hears her sigh in contentment and he relaxes, letting out a long breath. They lay quietly for a while, listening to the leaves rustle.

“Sandor?”

“Yes, little bird.”

“Have I told you that I love you? I do, you know, so much.” She presses her hand over his heart. “I love you, Sandor.”

He is glad she can’t see his face.  Tears pool and threaten to fall as he stares upward. He grasps her hand, controlling his voice with difficulty. “As I love you, Sansa.” He feels her smile against him and he cannot remember, nor imagine, a finer moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I have decided, for better or worse, to end it here. This moment between them is so special. The first time they say I love you. I would guess it means more to Sandor than vows before a heart tree. Thanks so so so much for reading and especially for your wonderful comments. It really means a lot!

**Author's Note:**

> I am excited to share part 3 of my series, but I'm also feeling nervous. I hope no one is disappointed in the direction the story has taken!


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